From Among You
by Bella7
Summary: And the righteous shall walk a thorny path...
1. Prologue

**A/N: All usual disclaimers apply. Anything you recognize: not mine; anything you don't: mine. This is also posted at Portkey, but for lack of support I'm going elsewhere with it. Enjoy and please let me know what you think.  
**

**Prologue**

Waiting had never been something at which Harry had been very good. He wanted answers, results, solutions instantly if not sooner. Problems were least troublesome if they could be solved immediately. Unfortunately, waiting was all he could do, all he'd been doing for the last several weeks and there were no solutions in sight.

He sighed and raked a hand through his unruly black hair, pushing away from the stiff and sterile hospital bed, no longer wanting to look at the near lifeless body sleeping in it. His eyes fell to the window, the rainy London streets below, the people scurrying every which way to escape the nasty weather. It felt like ages since he'd been rained upon...or showered…or slept. With the thought of sleep, he gazed once more at the patient behind him and shook his head.

'Sleeping' had been how everyone had been referring to her condition. Dressing it down, making sound so less drear, as if she were only taking a nap. Harry hated euphemisms. He knew better. No sleep was as deep as this—no natural, healing sleep. This sleep was suffocating, smothering a chance at life with each passing, carefully monitored breath. This sleep would kill the sleeper if not disrupted soon.

And then all of this would have been for nothing.

A wave of exhaustion his Harry swiftly, nearly knocking him off of his feet. Abandoning his view of the dismal city streets, he collapsed into the uncomfortable chair next to his sleeping companion. His eyes fell upon the patient. Maybe death would be better that what would await her when—if—she ever woke up. A part of Harry hated himself for thinking that way, but he couldn't bear things to remain the way they were for much longer.

She was back in his life but no longer his; laying in front of him but so very, very far away; breathing and alive but not actually living. He sighed again, too tired to think any longer. It had been weeks since he'd had a decent night's sleep—a night that wasn't violently interrupted by horrific nightmares and cold sweats.

All of this had begun with dreams. Not his…those would come later…and they would not stop. Sleep, though, which had been lapping patiently at his ankles, patiently waiting, finally grabbed hold and tugged him under, pulling him gently out to an endless sea with the hope of a dreamless night.

But as he slept, Harry remembered…


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

The moon hung low over the tree line; the leaves glistened in the early morning air. A scream tore through the valley, slicing through the pacific scene. She was running, crying, and gasping for breath, her thin cotton nightgown was soaked with sweat and mist. She had to get away. Through the woods—once she was through the woods she would be safe; if she could get through the woods—get to the people—someone would help her.

Her bare feet flew over the grass and into the forest. She ducked under low limbs and pushed away branches that grabbed at her, tearing her clothes and skin.

They were coming. They were right behind her and if she stopped, they would kill her.

Her blonde hair whipping around her head and sticking to her face, she leapt nimbly over a large puddle, ignoring the rock which sliced open her foot.

In the dark, the trees were endless; she had been running blindly, her hands outstretched before her. She might be lost, she realized, might be turned around and headed directly for the very person from which she was running. If they were even a person at all.

An upraised root caught her foot and brought her crashing to the ground, twisting her ankle with a sickening crunch. She tried to stand, tried to block out the footsteps which were coming closer and closer through the thicket. Her ankle gave way and again she fell with a moan of frustration and hopelessness. Tears streaming down her dirty face, she crawled to the nearest patch of bushes and tried to hide herself within them. _Be silent, _her mind commanded her ragged breathing and her pounding heart, _they'll hear you._ Silent and invisible, she told herself, silent and invisible.

And then it was quiet.

Too quiet.

Had they gone through still searching for her? Had she slipped past their notice? Was she safe?

No sooner had these thoughts entered her mind than the bushes in which she was hidden burst apart from behind her and she felt herself being dragged by the hair through the forest. She kicked her feet bloody trying to get free, broke off her fingernails clawing at the ground. The attacker's iron grip on her scalp would not be broken. Her screams, ringing through the pines, went unheard.

With a quick flash of glinting silver the screaming turned to unintelligible gurgling which soon died down and eventually, the young girl fell silent while her slayer worked around her, muttering things in hushed whispers which only the trees could hear.

Fifteen miles away, in a townhouse flat on Origin Alley, Ron Weasley awoke in a cold sweat. He ran to the bathroom and threw up.

* * *

"You okay, Ron?" Harry asked at breakfast later that morning.

"Hmm?" Ron looked up drowsily from his untouched eggy toast and gave a distracted nod. "Fine."

"You look like hell. Everything all right?"

"Bad dreams," the blonde girl's lifeless brown eyes, staring up at him from a blood spattered face entered his mind again. He shook his head, "Nothing to worry about."

The door to the flat opened and Hermione entered, carrying the morning paper. "Morning, boys," she greeted cheerfully.

"Morning," they returned in unison as she dropped the paper onto the table and set to making herself a cup of tea.

"Where've you been?" Ron asked, noticing her dirty fingernails and clothes.

"Digging in the garden," she shrugged, "I was up early, thought I'd de-gnome."

"Couldn't sleep either?" Harry asked, looking from one roommate to the other.

"Trouble sleeping, Ron?" Hermione stopped in her tea-making and looked at her redheaded best friend.

"Just bad dreams, he mumbled again, grabbing the paper and burying his head in the sports section.

"Well," her tea steeping, Hermione sat down between them, "What did you dream?"

"It was nothing," he muttered, eyes trained deliberately on an article about the Chudley Cannons.

Hermione snatched the paper away and smiled, "C'mon, you'll feel better if you tell us."

"Doubtful."

"Was it about a girl?" Harry joked, shoveling some more scrambled eggs into his mouth. Ron nodded somberly, not looking up. Harry rolled his eyes, "Ron, we've been over this," he continued, "The Weird Sisters turning you down for a date does not constitute a nightmare."

Hermione giggled for a moment before sobering at Ron's expression. "We're sorry, Ron. Tell us what happened."

Ron closed his eyes, remembering her ragged breathing and frantic eyes as she tore through the forest, "She was scared," he said, looking at his fingernails, "terrified, really. Running for her life."

"From what?" Harry asked with any trace of humor gone from his voice.

"Dunno, couldn't see. It got her though—whatever she was running from."

Hermione's brow furrowed, "Did she—"

"Slit her throat," he nodded, "Used some kind of strange knife I'd never seen before…"

"What did it look like?" Harry leaned forward in interest.

"Just had some weird sort of carvings on it…two blades," he ran his hands over his face, "It wasn't the knife, though, it was the hands…"

"The girl's hands?" Hermione prompted.

"No…the killer's hands…there was something familiar about them."

"Familiar how?"

He shrugged, "I don't know…it just felt like I'd seen them before."

"Strange," Harry murmured, obviously unsettled by this.

"I wouldn't worry about it," Hermione said breezily, patting Ron on the back, "They're just dreams."

Harry looked at her for a moment, "You really think so?"

"Yes," she nodded, "I do." She covered his hand with hers and gave it a quick squeeze, "He's gone, Harry. We made sure of it."

Harry offered a small smile, "You're right."

"Ron's probably just suffering from repressed memories or anxiety about Auror training starting up soon."

Ron nodded, "We saved the bloody world, you'd think they'd just certify us and be done with it already," he grumbled good naturedly.

Hermione smiled at her boys, "See? Nothing to worry about. I've got to go down to Diagon Alley for awhile, anyone want to tag along?"

And so the decision was made that Ron's dreams were only dreams and that that particular Saturday was to be better spent wandering around Diagon Alley, dragging Hermione from the bookstores and Ron and Harry out of the Quidditch supplier, having a laugh in Weasley Wizard Wheezes and visiting Ginny at the Leaky Cauldron for a bite of dinner much, much later in the day.

* * *

Ginny was fighting back a mighty yawn as she cleaned up the dining room of the Leaky Cauldron. Midnight couldn't come soon enough—only another ten minutes. She bewitched the rest of the dishes to wash themselves and returned to the front desk.

"All right then, Ginny?" Tom asked, making his way slowly down the creaking stairs.

She smiled and tucked a stray hair behind her ear, "All right."

"I'll be off then, see you in the morning," he shrugged into his threadbare jacket and gave a little wave as he Disapparated home.

Overall, Ginny was enjoying her new job as assistant manager of the Leaky Cauldron. Tom had given her a job once the war ended, hoping that with her help they could jumpstart the Cauldron and get it back on its feet. Thus far, it seemed to be working. The dining room was once again full at meal times, the bar was busy for most of the night, and people had warmed once again to the idea of staying in town for a night or longer.

She yawned again as the clock began to chime. Closing time. Excellent. Ginny closed the bank book and registration records and locked them in the desk and began to move about the building, extinguishing any lights that Collie—Richard Collins, the night clerk—wouldn't need.

As she was shoving in chairs and straightening knick-knacks around the dining room, the front door bell jingled and a gust of early autumn air blew through. "Evening, Collie," she greeted fondly without turning around. When she received no answer, Ginny turned and found that while the door was wide open, there was indeed no one there. "Hello?" she called softly, glancing around nervously. The door was banging against the back wall, the bell jingling each time as the knot in Ginny's stomach twisted harder and harder with each bang. "Collie?"

If Collie was there, he wasn't answering. Ginny slowly made her way to the doorway. With a loud gulp and a pounding heart, she took a step outside for a look around. As she did, she saw nothing out of the ordinary; a man asleep next to a rubbish bin, an empty bottle in his hand, the pubs beginning to close up for the night, a pair of lovers strolling down the cobblestone, hand in hand, giggling, their heads bent together. She was about to go back inside when a hand went around her waist while another went around her mouth, muffling the startled scream she let out. She was being dragged around the corner to the alley.

"Shut up!" a voice hissed in her ear. That hiss. Ginny knew that hiss. But it couldn't be…he was dead…wasn't he?

She found herself shoved up against the brick wall and staring into a face she had expected never to see again. Again, she screamed against his hand, eyes desperately searching for someone who would help her. "Shut up!" he hissed again. With his hand still firmly holding her head to the wall, he used the other to reach into his pocket and remove his wand, which he pointed at her face. "You're going to do as I say, do you understand?" She nodded frantically. "You're going to help me, all right?" She eyed him for a moment until he pointed his wand between her eyes, "Let me try this again. You're going to help me or I'm going to kill you, do you agree?" Ginny nodded, her old feelings of loathing returning swiftly. "You're going to let me stay here—you're going to hide me. Is that clear?" Her nod was slow, her eyes narrowed. "There's a girl." Malfoy lowered his wand and gave himself a nod, appearing slightly relieved. "Now, if I let go of you, do you promise not to scream?"

Ginny nodded slowly, breathing heavily through her nose. He slid his hand away from her mouth and allowed her a few gulps of oxygen. "But you're—" she gasped, still not believing her eyes.

"Obviously, I'm not."

"But you are! I was there!"

"I know what you saw."

"What do you want?" she asked searching her pockets for her wand.

"You left it on the desk, inside," he informed her carelessly. "You'll be dead before you even reach the door," he added, seeing the look on her face. "I wouldn't risk it." His own wand remained deliberately out of his pocket and pointed at her. "As for your question, I thought I'd just made myself abundantly clear. I need a room. Immediately. And no one can know about it."

"Why should I help you?" She spat, leaning against the wall, rubbing her side where he'd grabbed her.

"Because if you don't, I'll kill your entire family. Is that what you want?" She said nothing; he offered a joyless smile, "Brilliant." He motioned for the open door. "Shall we?"

Inside, Malfoy waited while Ginny's shaking hands found the key to the top floor bedroom. "Here," she dropped it on the counter, "Room 43."

"If anyone finds me, Weasley," he snatched the keys, "I'm holding you personally responsible."

"Why would anyone be looking for you, Malfoy?" she snapped, her fear giving way to repugnance. "You've been dead for six months now."

"This never happened," he informed her, Disapparating so quickly she almost believed him.

The door opened again, causing Ginny to nearly jump out of her seat. "All right, Gin?" Collie asked, looking concerned.

A wave of relief swept through her as Collie slid out of his coat and came over to the desk. She could tell Collie what happened, he would know what to do. Collie had been through both wars, and worked days at the Ministry. He had a wife and three small children—he was a good guy. He'd know what to do. "You look like you've just seen a ghost," he joked, leaning against the counter.

She had. Draco Malfoy had been reported dead in the final battle in Godric's Hollow. Everyone knew that. And yet, there he'd stood not five minutes before, stealing a room from her. He looked like a ghost. Pale and sickly, too thin, dirty, his platinum blonde hair greasy and nearly touching his shoulders, his eyes red and shifty. There was something else in his eyes, something she couldn't place.

"Ginny?" Collie asked, peering into her face. "Are you all right, love?"

She blinked and shook her head, "Just tired, Col," she assured him with a smile. "I'm just in need of a good night's sleep."

Whatever she had seen in him, Ginny realized as she grabbed her wand and Disapparated home without another word, was the reason she had just agreed to keep his secret.


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N: All usual disclaimers apply  
**

**Chapter Two**

Ginny Weasley was a wreck; a grade A, first class mess. She hadn't slept in days, she leapt at every sound, every creak that came from upstairs made her heart stop, and anyone saying her name practically sent her into seizures.

This couldn't go on, she knew, but she didn't have any ideas at the moment.

What made this situation all the more frustrating was that in the week he had been living upstairs, making her life a living hell and putting job and—more importantly—her life in jeopardy, Ginny hadn't actually seen Draco. The only way of knowing if he was even still living above her would be to go up and see for herself—something she was most unwilling to do. She knew he was eating because certain things had begun disappearing from the kitchen—Yorkshire pudding, steak and kidney pies, and several bottles of whiskey. Ginny felt oddly comforted by the idea that even if he wasn't upstairs anymore, he was drunk and full somewhere.

Still, people had begun to notice her strange behavior. Her mother had said something about it that very morning at breakfast.

"Ginny, what's the matter with you? You haven't even touched your food! Are you sick?"

"No, Mum, I'm fine," she'd shaken her head and forced a bite of toast.

"You don't look fine," Molly had commented, "When was the last time you had a good night's sleep?"

Ginny shrugged, "I don't know; I'm probably just coming down with something."

"I think it's that job."

At this, the juice glass that she was raising to her lips slipped from her hands and crashed to the floor. "What about my job?"

Molly sighed and pointed her wand at the mess her daughter had just made. "I think you're working too many hours—it wouldn't kill you to take a night off every once in awhile."

"Oh," she visibly relaxed, "yeah…you're probably right. I'll talk to Tom about it later."

That had been the end of that conversation, though it had taken her mother leaving the house for her heart to slow down.

A creak from the stairs caused such a spasm that Ginny spilled an entire bottle of ink on the reservation book. Tom, the source of the creaking, looked curiously down at her. "Are you sure you're all right, Ginny?" he asked for the tenth time that day.

"Mmm hmm," she answered distractedly, waving her wand over the book to clean up the spill.

"Just a little jumpy, eh?"

"A little," she nodded, wishing very much that he would go away. After a moment, he did and she breathed a small sigh of relief.

No, this definitely couldn't go on.

* * *

When she returned home from the market, she knew something was wrong. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. The front door had been broken open and the sitting room was a mess. Furniture kicked over, glass shattered…she took another step inside and set the bag of groceries down, fear coursing through her veins with each beat of her heart. The house was too quiet, she realized. For as many people who lived there, someone was always shouting or slamming a door, running up and down the steps or clanging dishes or pots and pans in the kitchen. The silence scared her more than anything else.

She drew her wand from her pocket and proceeded with caution down the hallway and into the kitchen. A scream caught in her throat and escaped as a strangled gasp at what she saw. Her mother, sisters, and brother were tied together—bound and gagged, in the center of the room.

"Mama!" she exclaimed, rushing toward them, barely noticing that her wand had flown out of her hand, rendering her just as helpless as the captives.

"Ah, ah, ah!" a voice behind her said. "Mustn't touch, Sarah."

She whirled around, wand at the ready, but found no one there. "Let them go!" she demanded, her heart pounding.

"But they make such excellent bargaining chips," the voice chided.

"What do you want?"

There was a sigh which sounded very annoyed, "As if you didn't already know."

"Please," she begged, "I don't know…whatever it is, you can have it. Take whatever you want—just let them go."

"In good time, my love, all in good time. I won't hurt them as long as you're cooperative. Are you going to give it to me? Or am I going to have to take it?"

Her brow furrowed in confusion as two tears leaked from her eyes, "Give you what? What do you want?"

There was the distinct sound of tsking from just beside her. "Playing dumb won't you anywhere…I've never had much patience for the dim."

"I'm not playing," Sarah said desperately, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I think you're lying, now," the voice said, "and I hate liars."

"I'm not! I'll give you whatever you want! Just tell me what it is!"

"You have a gift, Sarah Wheeler. I need it. We can't play properly without it."

"My gift?" she choked.

"Yes, the one thing that makes you more special than everyone else."

"I…I don't know what you're talking about. I'm not special, you've got the wrong girl."

"Now you're calling _me _dim?" the voice was angry now, "I don't think you have the slightest idea of who you're dealing with, little girl."

"You're right, I don't…I…you're not dim, I swear…I just…"

"Oh this boring. Looks like I'll just have to do it myself."

Before another sound could be made, Sarah's throat opened and blood came spilling out onto the wooden floors. An invisible force grabbed a fistful of her hair and began dragging her down the hall and out the door.

"RON!" Harry's voice pulled him out of his nightmare, drenched in sweat and grabbing at his own throat. "Ron, wake up! It was a dream, it was just a dream."

He shook his head vehemently as Hermione burst into the room as well, "Is he all right?"

"I don't know," Harry answered truthfully as Ron struggled for breath, "These dreams of his are getting worse."

"She was—" he coughed and tried to swallow, "her whole family watching…I couldn't…I didn't…"

"Ron," Hermione's voice was soft and calming as she sat down next to him, "you're all right. It was just a bad dream."

"I couldn't see it," he rasped, his breathing beginning to return to normal, "She couldn't see it…it killed her and she couldn't even…"

"Ron, you're all right," Harry insisted, "you're safe here with us."

It was another few minutes before Ron had composed himself enough to accept the glass of water Hermione had fetched from the bathroom. "Thanks," he said quietly before gulping it down.

"You all right now?" she asked, maternally pushing back a lock of red hair from his damp forehead.

"Yeah," he nodded, looking embarrassed, "I'm sorry I woke you guys up."

"We thought something was happening to you," Harry said, watching his friend closely.

"Something was," Ron nodded, "I don't know what's going on with me."

"Maybe you should talk to someone about it," Harry suggested with a shrug.

"Or there's always a sleeping potion—dreamless sleep, guaranteed," Hermione added with a smile.

"I just want them to stop. I mean, a solid week of this."

"You're sure it's a different girl every night?" Harry asked.

"Trust me," Ron tapped his temple, "it's not something you forget, watching seven different women slaughtered in your mind's eye."

"They're just dreams," Hermione reminded, getting to her feet. "We should probably get some rest—all of us. Classes tomorrow."

Harry shook his head as he watched her leave the room, "Some things never change."

* * *

Ginny had made up her mind that day that she was going to tell someone about the Malfoy Situation. That's how she'd been referring to it in her mind: The Malfoy Situation. A top secret position that had been unwillingly thrust upon her. She was done protecting a known felon, a wanted murderer, a celebrated Death Eater. That was it—no more.

She'd resolved to tell Tom at the end of her shift, offer to resign and hope that after he'd called the Ministry, he'd understand why she'd done what she'd done and let her keep her job. Truth be told, she was qualified for very little else and was not yet old enough to train to be an Auror. This job was more or less all she had going for her and she would not let Draco Malfoy ruin it for her as he had ruined so many other things.

Midday, however, something happened she did not count on. Hermione came in for a visit over lunch. "You look terrible," she commented almost immediately. "Have you been sleeping?"

"Not very well," Ginny admitted truthfully, ignoring the bluntness of Hermione's observations.

"Must be a Weasley trait," she commented darkly.

"Ron still having nightmares?" Ginny asked incredulously; Ron had described his first nightmare to her in startling detail. If the dreams had continued like that for the past week, she couldn't imagine her brother ever wanting to sleep again.

"Every night," Hermione sighed. "And not that I'm not sympathetic—we've all had our share of bad dreams and memories since the war—but no one in the house has had a decent night's sleep since all this business started. It's impossible to sleep with him bellowing like that."

Ginny raised an eyebrow, "He bellows?"

"Wouldn't you bellow if you saw brutal murders every night?"

She shook her head, "I'm not sure what I'd do if I saw that."

"I picked him up a few different potions to try to simulate dreamlessness," she reached into her bag and removed several oddly shaped vials. "Let's hope something works." Hermione dropped the vials back into her school bag and looked up, catching Ginny in worried and distracted expression. "He'll be fine, I'm sure," she assured her, "these will do the trick."

"Mmm," Ginny nodded and began playing with the charm on her necklace. A noise from upstairs caused her companion to glance upwards, not missing the fact that Ginny had visibly twitched.

"All right, Gin, what's going on?"

Ginny swallowed hard—an idea came to her. Hermione! Of course! Telling Tom would definitely get her fired—possibly even arrested—no matter how much he liked her. But Hermione? What could she do but help? She would know what to do, who to call, how to keep Ginny's name out of it…Hermione was a genius. Ginny patted herself on the back for such a brilliant realization.

"All right," she began, "but you've got to swear you won't freak out."

"I swear."

"I've been…" Ginny stopped, trying to think of how to phrase this. _I've been protecting and hiding one of my most hated enemies for a week or so. _No, that was no good. _Remember Malfoy? Well…he's not so much dead as the other thing…_ Rubbish.

"Yeah, Gin?" Hermione prompted with raised, expectant eyebrows.

"I've been…" her mind wandered back to the night he'd arrived. _He _was the one people should be telling looked terrible. Hungry, homeless, haunted…and she'd never seen anyone look more afraid in her life. That was it, she realized, the haunted look about his eyes wasn't the usual malignant glint she'd grown up with. It was fear. Draco Malfoy was terrified.

"Whatever it is, Gin, I promise I won't freak out."

"I've been seeing Dean Thomas again," she blurted out, wanting desperately to clamp a hand over her mouth for her lies.

Hermione blinked, "Oh. When did this start?"

"About a week ago," she continued, "he came in for a drink, we got to talking…you know how it is sometimes with old flames."

"Not…exactly…" Hermione eyed her suspiciously. "Well that's great, Ginny. It doesn't explain why you look like you haven't slept in…" she stopped herself, "well, I guess it could…"

"Don't mention it to Ron," Ginny rushed on, "you know how he gets sometimes."

Hermione rolled her eyes and glanced at her watch. "Don't worry," she said, sliding off the barstool, "Hey," she produced a vial of sleeping potion, "maybe you should pick up one of these yourself—slip Dean a little," she winked, "get some shut-eye."

Ginny had the decency to blush—though not for any reason Hermione was suggesting—and laughed, "I'll think about it."

Hermione was down the street and headed back to St. Mungo's before Ginny let out the breath she'd been holding. She dropped her elbows to the counter and hung her head in her hands. What would her mother say if she heard all those lies? Ginny comforted herself with the fact that her mother would be much more upset that she'd been protecting a Death Eater than telling a few white lies.

She sighed and ran her hands over her face.

This was not good.

* * *

Hermione didn't like the feeling she got when she Apparated home that night after class. Upstairs, she heard the rise and fall of anxious voices; she dropped her books onto the chair by the door and took the stairs two at a time, following the voices down the hall to Ron's room. Harry was sitting on Ron's bed, watching as his best friend paced around the room, muttering to himself.

Harry caught her in the doorway, "We have a problem," he informed.

"I can see that," she said, crossing her arms. "What's wrong?"

"What's wrong?" Ron demanded, "I'm turning into a nutter, that's what's wrong! I'm bloody crazy!"

"Ron, you're not crazy," Harry insisted, sounding hopeless.

"Easy for you to say…you've had a nice long vacation from your dreams coming true, haven't you?"

"Could someone please tell me what's going on?" Hermione demanded wearily.

"I'll tell you what's going on! Someone's hacked into my head and they're making me see things! Wouldn't you be a little upset?"

Hermione looked at Harry for clarification. "His nightmares," Harry said quietly, "they're not…they're not nightmares." Without another word, he handed her The Daily Prophet next to him.

"SEVENTH DISAPPEARANCE IN SEVEN DAYS" read the headline, "MINISTRY FEARS THE WORST". Below the headline were seven pictures of young women—all looking to be no older than thirty.

"I don't understand," she dropped the paper to her side, "it's terrible, yes, but I don't know what…" Realization hit her, "these are the women you've been dreaming about?"

"Yes!" Ron exclaimed, "I've been watching these girls get butchered every night and you're all telling me they're only dreams!"

"Ron, what else could we tell you?" Harry asked, getting to his feet, "We didn't know either!"

"Seven," Hermione said, reading the headline again. "Seven's a powerful number."

"Nine's stronger," Harry reminded.

"So we're supposed to wait to see if whoever's doing this kills two more people before we decide whether or not we have a problem?" Ron asked incredulously.

"No," Hermione sighed, "of course not."

"What are we going to do then?"

"I…" she looked helplessly at Harry, "I don't know."

And they didn't know…not what was happening. Not what was coming.

They didn't have a clue.

* * *

**A/N:** I know I take forever between chapters…but reviews help. I love to know what you're thinking! 


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